Going To The Basement

Before they gave up on love together,
my parents used to fight, and my mother
would retreat to the basement. I’d always visit
her there, in her kingdom of sadness.
She never outright said the thing:
That hurt me so bad. I feel so angry. I want you
to comfort me, big arms. Hers was a wordless language.
Sobs that traveled from ceiling to baseboards.
Even though I was five, I was fluent. I was woman.
I knew this meant, come down here and sweep up
the mess of me; carry me up the stairs.
If you cut your hand on my glass say it was worth it.
My father only speaks one language, so never came.
We learn what love is from our parents. Sometimes I don’t
say the thing: I’m terrified. I’m a bruise all over. I’m afraid I’ll rust
with all this sadness. I hid the scissors. I need you
to hold me so I know where the pain stops.
I’m no better than my mother. Even though I don’t
have a basement to go to, I go there: breaking
eye contact, staring out the window and envying
roadkill, hoping the cries will sound
the alarm that I am on fire. People aren’t really drawn
to that, I’m learning in therapy. I’m encouraged to speak it
directly: I want you to thaw my cold shoulder
with kisses. Take the keys out of my hand. Shove
the blood back in. Say sorry so I can be a creature
of forgiveness. But it’s easier to go
to the basement, to give someone the gift
of disappointing you again, to be the victim
who tied herself up, to not know the betrayal
of having more love
than the ones who made us.